SKETCHES  IN 
LYRIC  PROSE 
AND  VERSE 


NATALIE 
WHITTED 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CAl '      "*"A 

SAi      •  >-** 


presented  to  the 

LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIFGO 

by 

FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 


MR.   JOHN  C.   ROSE 


donor 


THE  UNIVERSITY  UbK«t, 
MWIVOttfTY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SAW 
IA  JOIJA  CALIFORNIA 


SKETCHES 

IN  LYRIC  PROSE 

AND  VERSE 

BY 
NATALIE  WHITTED  PRICE 


Ralph  Hetcner  Seymour 
Publisher       Chicago 


Copyright  1920 

by 
Natalie  Whitted  Price 


To  my  comrade 


CONTENTS 

Page 

Spring  1 1 

Josephine  of  France  14 

Reverie  17 

Cleopatra  19 

Her  Hand  22 

My  Moods  24 

To  a  Pine  Tree  27 

Song  28 

In  the  Park  29 

Butterflies  30 

Your  Voice  32 

O'er  the  Way  33 

Lines  Sent  with  a  Miniature  34 

To  a  Little  Old-Fashioned  Girl  35 

Ma  Belle  37 

The  Treasure-Box  38 

A  Southern  Valentine  41 

The  Little  Ring  42 

Memory  42 

The  Trundle-Bed  43 

You  45 

The  Desk  Clerk  46 

Your  Day-Dreams  48 


Contents 

Page 

Cap  and  Bells  49 

Retribution  50 

October  51 

Daisy  and  Star  52 

The  Patch-Work  Quilt  53 

Grandma's  Garden  55 

Mammy's  Soldier-Gal  56 

Flower  and  Maid  58 

My  Castle  59 

The  Wooing  60 

The  Pleiades  61 

Then  and  Now  63 

The  Beetle  Party  65 

The  Celibate  68 

The  Prod  69 

An  Easter  Idyl  70 

Two  Mice  71 

To  the  Horse  I  Left  Behind  Me  72 

Compensation  73 

Fools  74 

The  Hanging  75 

The  Cricket  76 

If  the  Trees  Could  Talk  78 

Mammy's  Lullaby  80 


SKETCHES  IN  LYRIC  PROSE 
AND  VERSE 


SKETCHES  IN  LYRIC  PROSE  AND  VERSE 

SPRING 
An  Allegory 


^PRING,  passing  on  her  way,  came 
to  a  hill-crest,  where  Ennui  reclined, 
wrapped  in  the  sleep  of  weariness. 
Upon  the  crusty  leaves  of  winter's 
hoarding  his  frame  lay  motionless,  in 


utter  lassitude.  So  gentle  was  the  tread  of  Spring, 
so  mute  her  breath,  that  he  awakened  not  at  her  ap 
proach.  Perceiving  him  she  smiled  and  drew  near. 
Bending  above  him,  she  lifted  from  her  brow  a  fra 
grant  garland  and  placed  it  lightly  on  his  own,  and 
from  her  tasseled  apron  she  drew  a  hundred  roses, 
binding  them  with  the  tendrils  of  soft  mosses,  as  a 
pillow  for  his  head.  The  trailing  vines  about  her 
feet  she  laced  into  a  verdant  spread  with  which  she 
covered  him,  and  dotted  it  with  petaled  stars  of 
choicest  hue;  and  in  the  heart  of  every  flower,  and 
through  each  palpitating  leaf  she  breathed  the  fra 
grance  of  her  own  sweet  self.  With  sunshine  smiles 
she  chased  the  shivering  gnomes  of  winter  from  the 
surrounding  wood,  and  from  the  silences  she  beck 
oned  waiting  birds  and  bade  them  sing  a  rhapsody. 
All  this  accomplished  she  stood  apart,  and  with  a 
silent  challenge  moved  her  awakening  wand  o'er 
dreaming  Ennui. 

[11] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 

He  stirred,  and  looked  about  in  wonderment. 
Slowly  his  tired  senses  quickened,  and  in  his  veins 
suffused  a  fuller,  warmer  beat.  A  clearer  vision 
lighted  in  his  eye,  and  fancy  lifted  from  his  brow  the 
shade  of  sombre  thought.  Despondency  fell  from 
him  as  embers  from  a  flame-tipped  branch,  for  lo! 
beholding  Spring,  he  loved  her !  Her  beauty  charmed 
him;  her  sweet  simplicity  beguiled  him;  the  dainty 
lightness  of  her  limbs,  the  freshness  of  her  all-per 
vading  presence  drew  him. 

Arising,  he  stood  before  her  with  outstretched 
arms,  and  as  she  yielded  to  love's  sweet  allurement 
he  held  her  close,  and  said: 

"Dear  maid,  I  plight  my  troth  to  thee,  and  shall 
henceforth  my  full  allegiance  give  thee;  yet  must  I 
here  confession  make  of  my  unworthiness.  Along 
the  way  of  life  I  have  known  many  loves, — loves  of 
the  heart,  beneficent  and  tender, — loves  of  the  flesh, 
compelling,  eager, — loves  of  the  mind,  stern  crea 
tures  they, — and  wanton  loves,  insatiate  and  bold. 
Too,  phantom  loves  have  lured  me  into  tangled 
paths,  and  vanished  like  a  wind-swept  cloud.  With 
each  and  all  I  have  had  intimate  concern,  and  in 
these  close  relationships  have  suffered  and  have 
joyed  to  the  full  measure  of  my  manhood's  deep  com 
plexity.  Yet,  here  you  find  me,  solitary,  for  each  in 
turn  I  have  relinquished  or  abandoned  in  irritating 
unfulfillment  or  dull  satiety,  and  back  unto  myself 
have  drawn  in  futile  contemplation  of  life's  quest. 

"Dear  maiden,  having  thus  my  full  confession  made, 
may  I  yet  claim  thy  pure  and  gentle  heart?" 

Spring  drew  his  cheek  to  hers  and  answer  made: 
[12] 


Prose  and  Verse 

"Fear  not  that  I  shall  love  thee  less  because  thou 
hast  not  turned  from  life,  nor  that  I  could  have  loved 
thee  more  had  life  but  passed  thee  by,  for  those 
grown  wise  through  her  tuition  but  bring  to  me  a 
richer  understanding  of  human  strength  and  weak 
ness,  and  hence  a  gentler  toleration.  And  so,  I 
plight  my  troth  to  thee,  and  give  thee  to  my  inmost 
life  full  access.  I  make  no  stipulation.  I  claim  no 
vow.  Nor  do  I  fear  to  be  betrayed;  for  never  yet 
hath  soul  found  weariness  in  me, — the  deathless  child 
of  Nature, — Spring." 


[13] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


JOSEPHINE  OF  FRANCE* 

I 

.N  empire  is  my  pedestal!  Proud  sovereign  of 
noble  France  am  I,  and  consort  of  a  victor  who 
bears  the  conquered  flags  of  Europe  as  trophy  to  his 
genius!  Scorning  the  patronizing  touch  of  Church 
and  State,  his  hands  have  placed  upon  my  brow  the 
jeweled  emblem  of  supremacy,  to  match  His  Majesty 
in  place  and  power.  His  hands,  that  know  so  well 
the  sweet  caress  of  love,  have  fashioned  by  their 
magic  strength  a  throne  whereon  I  stand  beside  him, 
proud,  triumphant.  The  pageantry  of  her,  my  pred 
ecessor,  was  paltry  compared  to  this  my  dower. 
Hers  was  the  accident  of  birth;  mine  is  achieved  by 
conquest  and  acclaim,  and  nobly  won  by  his  uncon 
querable  will.  Poor  Antoinette!  bartered  by  state, 
and  wived  to  opulent  satiety,  to  be  at  last  the  victim 
of  vain  greed  and  gluttony, — the  tragic  toy  of  fallen 
monarchy ! 


*Part  No.  I  is  a  soliloquy  of  Josephine  when  she  is  the  wife 
of  Napoleon  and  Empress  of  France.  Part  No.  II  is  when  she 
has  been  divorced  by  him,  and  at  Malmaison,  near  Paris,  she 
lives  in  solitude,  supplanted  in  place  and  power  by  Marie  Louise, 
who  becomes  the  mother  of  his  son.  The  birth  of  this  son  is 
made  known  to  Josephine  by  the  firing  of  cannon.  It  has 
been  said  that  Napoleon's  motive  for  divorcing  Josephine  arose 
from  his  ambition  for  succession  of  rule  through  an  heir. 

[14] 


Prose  and  Verse 

Empress  of  France  am  I,  yet  much  less  queen  than 
woman;  loving  the  caress  and  whispered  confidence 
of  my  beloved  spouse  far  more  than  all  the  panoply 
of  power;  more  dear  to  me  by  far  his  loving  touch 
than  are  the  jewels  of  my  crown  or  all  they  sym 
bolize.  *  *  *  Incarnate  woman,  I,  encompassing 
in  mind  and  heart  the  fatuous  foibles  and  the  yearn 
ings,  the  terrors  and  the  triumphs,  the  fears  and 
fancies,  the  passions  and  the  silent  sorrows  of  the 
eternal  and  everlasting  She.  Incarnate  woman,  I; 
mate  of  the  male,  mother  to  his  young,  comrade  and 
wife,  consort  and  queen, — man's  complement  and 
equal  in  life's  achievement.  *  *  * 

These  little  hands,  *  *  *  how  fragile  are  they, 
and  how  fair!  Embellished  with  bright  jewels  and 
perfumed  like  unto  a  budding  flower.  Hands  fash 
ioned  to  caress  a  baby's  cheek,  to  fondle,  and  to  lace 
themselves  through  strands  of  silken  hair.  Frail, 
tender  hands,  to  be  uplifted  in  pious  supplication  or 
extended  in  maternal  benediction.  Hands  to  be 
warmly  clasped  by  love  and  pulse  in  quick  response 
to  its  awakening  touch.  Yet,  potent  hands  are  they; 
yea,  strong  as  death.  Hands  of  your  Josephine,  my 
lord !  Hold,  hold  them  tight !  You  have  not  climbed 
alone  the  path  of  glory !  You  need  these  little  hands ! 

II 

Alas,  these  little  hands!  how  tense  and  lean  and 
impotent  they  have  become!  *  *  *  These  lips 
that  love  has  sated,  how  dry  and  hungry  now! 
*  *  *  This  heart  that  beat  so  vibrant  'gainst  his 

[15] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 

own,  how  leaden  does  it  lie  against  my  numbing 
flesh!  *  *  *  Ambition!  Can  it  be  that  it  has 
crept  into  his  heart  and  smothered  his  dear  love  for 
me!  Ambition!  *  *  *  Has  it  made  of  me  a 
bagatelle,  a  plaything,  to  be  discarded  at  its  bidding? 
I  ? — I  ? — the  peerless  Josephine  ? — the  idol  of  his  eager 
passion,  the  sharer  of  his  early  triumphs,  the  fond 
and  faithful  comrade  of  his  glorious  manhood  ? — 

Ah,  little  hands,  where  are  your  hold — your  subtlety 
— your  sweet  allurement? — And  I,  incarnate  woman, 
what  demoniac  fate  has  robbed  me  of  the  culmina 
tion  of  my  loving  wifehood,  while  she,  the  daughter 
of  an  alien,  gives  unto  France  his  child?  *  *  * 

Alas,  as  barren  as  a  severed  bough  life  lies  before 
me,  and  long,  lean  years  reach  onward  mockingly. 

Hark!  'Tis  the  cannon's  note!  One, — *  *  * 
two — a  son  is  born  to  France!  His  son — and  hers! 
— Dear  Lord,  forgive  that  I  should  covet  her  this 
hour ! — But  no !  for  I  am  Josephine !  And  no  ignoble 
thought  shall  stain  my  heart! 

For  love  of  him — my  Emperor,  and  France — fair, 
lovely  France,  I  here  renunciation  make,  and  purge 
my  soul  of  self! 

Vive  1'enfant  Bonaparte! 

Vive!   Vive  la  France! 


[16] 


Prose  and  Verse 


w, 


REVERIE 

(To  G.  L.  K.) 


E  sat  upon  the  grass  that  summer's  day,  to 
gether,  you  and  I. 

Around  us  circled  nature's  green-clad  sentinels, 
making  inviolate  the  quietude. 

O'erhead  a  white-winged  pigeon  passed,  unheed 
ing,  to  its  mate,  and  downy  pollen  drifted  'round 
about  us  on  the  caressing  breeze. 

Nearby  the  Grecian  columns  of  a  temple  gleamed 
reposefully,  and  seemingly  to  chide  such  dignity  a 
leafy  bough  leaned  playfully  above  your  shoulder 
and  tapped  its  fragrant  kisses  on  your  cheek. 

We  sat  upon  the  grass, — the  gentle,  healing  grass, 
together,  you  and  I. 

The  agitating  past  receded  into  sweet  forgetful- 
ness,  and  the  insatiate  future  withheld  for  that  kind 
hour  its  greedy  claims. 

All  weariness  of  heart  and  stress  of  mind  resolved 
into  the  realm  of  vanished  dreams. 

We  sat  upon  the  grass  together,  you  and  I,  and 
since  that  summer's  day  all  days  hold  something  of 
that  hour, — something  of  its  benign  simplicity  and 
its  mysterious  wonder. 

[17] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 

One  day  I  shall  be  laid  beneath  the  grass,  but 
through  kind  nature's  transmutation  I  shall  trans 
verse  dividing  space! 

I  shall  become  the  wind,  to  wrap  myself  about 
you. 

I  shall  become  a  sunbeam,  to  warm  and  cheer 
you.  *  *  * 

I  shall  ride  the  vaporous  cloud  to  fall  a  crystal  drop 
upon  your  brow,  or  rest,  a  gleaming  jewel,  in  the 
flower  you  cull.  *  *  * 

I  shall  glisten  on  the  wing  of  blue-birds  nesting 
near  your  window,  and  whose  song  shall  flood  your 
soul  with  memories  of  me.  *  *  * 

I  shall  visit  you  in  day-dreams,  to  share  your  soli 
tude,  and  you  shall  find  me  in  the  darkness  that 
brings  you  restful  sleep.  *  *  * 

Commingled  with  the  elements  I  shall  encompass 
you,  and  not  an  hour  shall  pass  but  that  in  still, 
small  voice  I  shall  make  known  to  you  my  pres 
ence.  *  *  * 

Yea,  in  your  very  heart  I  shall  pulsate,  component 
of  your  sentient  being. 


And  when  you,  too,  have  passed  from  life's  encir 
cling  hold,  then  the  infinitudes  shall  be  our  pathless 
realm,  and  atom  unto  atom  companioned  we  shall 
mingle  in  the  music  of  the  spheres. 


[18] 


Prose  and  Verse 


CLEOPATRA 
(Soliloquy) 

JL  HE  daughter  of  a  hundred  kings  am  I,  yet  slave 
to  that  fair  god  who  rules  without  a  scepter  or  a 
crown.  The  pride  of  all  the  Ptolemys  flows  in  my 
veins,  yet  do  I  bow  an  humble  and  submissive  sub 
ject  to  Love.  *  *  *  Ah,  Antony,  that  Egypt's 
queen  should  yield  to  thy  seduction!  And  yet,  what 
kingdom  is  worth  thy  fervent  kiss?  What  pride  of 
pedigree  can  match  the  glory  of  thy  passion?  I 
would  relinquish  all  to  be  thy  honored  and  beloved 
mate,  nor  could  it  so  have  been  but  for  the  qualities 
which  make  me  queen  in  spirit ;  for  of  so  noble  mind 
art  thou, — of  such  surpassing  parts,  that  only  great 
ness  matching  e'en  thine  own  could  have  enthralled 
thee.  *  *  *  And  Caesar  Augustus,  can  he 
draw  thee  hence  to  leave  me  desolate!  No,  by  my 
life  I  swear  that  never  Cleopatra's  abdication  shall 
swell  his  triumphs !  My  Antony  shall  know  no  sub 
jugation  but  that  of  my  caresses,  and  Rome  with  all 
her  power  cannot  subdue  the  will  of  Egypt.  *  *  * 
How  fair  the  sunlight  falls  about  me  and  mellows 
by  its  touch  the  polished  marble  of  this  floor! 
*  *  *  How  green  and  fertile  stretches  yonder  the 
valley  of  the  Nile!  The  Nile, — making  fecund  the 
desert,  and  enameling  with  riches  the  full  expanse 

[19] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 

of  my  beloved  realm!  The  Nile, — cradle  of  earth's 
most  ancient  race!  The  Nile, — winding  like  a  rib 
bon  about  the  tombs  where  rest  my  ancestors, — 
tombs  built  of  time  and  glory  into  majestic  pyra 
mids  which  clasp  the  girdle  of  the  Orient.  *  *  * 
And  these  grey  pyramids,  hoary  with  age,  locked  in 
mysterious  history,  writ  deep  with  the  traditions  of 
a  dynasty, — shall  they  become  defiled  by  alien  hands 
and  despoiled  of  all  their  kingly  treasure?  Shall 
those  dim  halls  of  sacred  dead  be  invaded  by  van 
dals,  and  Egypt's  crypted  kings  be  scoffed  at  by 
unholy  tongues?  No!  By  the  heritage  my  fathers 
bore  me,  I  shall  maintain  the  sanctity  of  their  repose, 
and  in  myself  uphold  the  glory  of  their  name !  Love 
may  obsess  the  woman,  but  Egypt's  queen  shall  still 
be  Egypt's  queen,  and  wifehood  shall  not  rob  her 
of  her  majesty  nor  stain  the  honor  of  her  crown. 

*  *     *     Hark!     In  that  step  a  menace   grips  my 
heart!     What  portend  doth  it  bear?     *     *     *     And 
that  knock     *     *     *     it  echoes  like  a  doom  against 
the    portals    of    my    mind.     *     *     *     Attend,    good 
slave.    Give  entrance.     *     *     *     A  message  from  the 
foul  intruder?     *     *     *     Unroll  the  scroll,  and  read. 

*  *     *     Enough!    Say  unto  Caesar  that  Cleopatra 
makes  no  capitulation,  and  yields  no  jot  or  tittle  of 
her   heritage    to    any!      Be-gone!     *     *     *     Iris, — 
Charmion, — my  queenly  vestments  and  my  jewels! 
Bind  on  my  brow  the  pearls  of  Ecuador,  and  on  my 
wrists  clasp  turquoise  bands.    About  my  throat  twine 
gleaming  strands  with  sparkling  pendants,  and  place 
my  scepter  near  at  hand !  No  cringing  suppliant  shall 

[20] 


Prose  and  Verse 

meet  the  enemy,  but  one  caparisoned  as  queen,  and  of 
a  purpose  to  command! 

My  heart  shall  still  be  Antony's,  but  Egypt  claims 
for  aye  my  soul ! 


[21] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


I 


HER  HAND 
(To  G.  L.  K.) 


STROKE  the  hand  of  my  beloved  and  contem 
plate  its  facile  power  to  lead  my  spirit  through  paths 
of  melody  into  the  realm  of  fancy. 

On  waves  of  harmony  it  lifts  my  senses  out  of 
corporal  self  and  into  that  mysterious  country,  the 
principality  of  genius. 

I  follow,  follow,  as  my  beloved  leads,  and  enter  in 
processional  that  tone  cathedral  where  kneel  the  wor 
shipers  of  beauty.  In  reverence  I  bow,  recipient  of 
its  benediction,  and  rise  refreshed  and  chastened. 

I  follow,  follow  on,  as  the  hand  of  my  beloved 
leads,  to  tread  green  pastures  and  walk  beside  still 
waters.  The  scent  of  budding  leaves  and  fragrant 
grasses,  the  whir  of  wings,  the  touch  of  mellow  earth 
lull  me  to  sweet  tranquillity,  and  I  linger  there  in 
pastoral  content. 

Again  the  hand  of  my  beloved  leads  where  valor 
stands  triumphant.  The  martial  call,  the  requiem  of 
fallen  brave,  each  draws  me  as  that  hand  may  beckon. 

Into  the  sumptuous  Orient's  heart,  the  mystic 
desert's  solitude,  afar,  anear,  I  follow,  follow. 

But  best  of  all  I  love  the  hand  of  my  beloved  when 
of  her  own  true  heart  it  melodizes  and  I  am  drawn 
into  the  star-draped  chamber  of  her  inner  self.  There 

[22] 


Prose  and  Verse 

do  I  yield  in  full  abandon  to  the  beauty  which  her 
nature  wreathes  about  me.  There  does  that  magic 
hand  reveal  to  me  life  in  fruition,  renewing  in  my 
consciousness  its  highest  import.  There  do  I  feel  its 
ecstasies  and  tears,  its  sweeps  of  color  and  its  hueless 
voids. 

Oh,  wondrous  hand,  to  weave  in  tapestries  of  tone 
such  fancies  rare  and  themes  sublime ! — to  lift  on  un 
dulating  sound  this  feeble  spirit  to  the  infinite! 

I  stroke  the  hand  of  my  beloved,  marveling  at  so 
divine  an  instrument. 

In  fervent  gratitude  I  press  my  lips  to  the  fair, 
potent  hand  of  my  beloved. 


[23] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


*  •• 


MY  MOODS 


I 


LOVE  my  moods.  They  are  my  comrades, — my 
play-fellows  by  day,  my  bed-fellows  by  night.  They 
bring  me  no  reproach,  no  criticism;  they  carry  no 
regret  and  offer  no  antagonisms;  they  cost  me  no 
exertion  and  occasion  no  expense.  And  yet  I  owe 
them  much, — these  straggling  visitors,  these  jack-o'- 
lantern  creatures,  these  vagrant,  variant  comrades. 
Like  unto  the  pages  of  the  book  of  life  are  they. 
Aye,  they  are  life,  re-touched  by  the  mysterious 
brush  of  memory. 

There  is  the  intellectual  mood,  when  my  mind 
wanders  in  the  clean  realm  of  thought, — that  wind 
swept  sky  where  no  emotion  penetrates.  In  it  I  find 
the  stimulus  of  wine, — white,  limpid  wine,  and  grow 
drunken  on  abstrusities,  revel  in  mental  labyrinths, 
and  return  to  find  a  warm  body  awaiting  the  descent, 
— a  tired,  hungry  body  full  of  human  sensibilities, 
eager  impulses  and  desires. 

Then  there  is  the  mood  to  leave  behind  me  the 
pave,  the  peak  of  spire,  the  strain  and  stress  of  this 
big  town,  and  roam  complacently  the  lanes  and  fields ; 
— to  intimately  touch  the  leaves  and  grasses,  to  listen 
to  the  creatures  of  the  forest,  to  hug  the  homely 
trunk  of  weather-beaten  trees,  and  sense  the  one- 

[24] 

V 


Prose  and  Verse 

ness  of  myself  and  earth  as  prone  I  lie  against  its 
mellow  surface.  This  yearning  quite  obsesses  me  at 
times  and  sinks  down  deep  into  my  consciousness. 

Too,  there  is  the  mood  to  mix  and  mingle  with 
my  kind, — the  human  friendship  mood.  In  this  I 
want  the  clasp  of  sympathetic  hands, — to  laugh,  to 
talk  of  household  commonplaces,  to  exchange  a 
jolly  story,  to  sing  or  hear  a  quaint  old  ditty,  to  romp 
with  children,  and  to  chatter  about  clothes  and  folks 
and  folderols. 

And  then  the  mood  of  books  and  music  comes  to 
me,  and  all  the  charm  of  art  beguiles  me.  I  lend 
myself  to  fancy's  themes  in  poetry,  in  romance  and 
in  essay.  I  follow  genius  into  heights  sublime,  and 
grow  expansive  in  comprehensive  thought  and  feel 
ing.  The  sensuous  call  of  music  stirs  my  sensibili 
ties;  I  hear  anew  old  melodies  and  winding  harmo 
nies.  The  weird  lament  of  Canio,  the  pastorale  of 
Manon,  the  apotheosis  of  Marguerite, — all  merge 
and  mingle  in  my  memory,  and  every  sense  is  lulled 
or  quickened  by  undulating  sound;  I  am  in  tune 
with  all  the  universe  and  seem  myself  a  note  of  some 
great  anthem. 

These  moods  are  all  expressed, — become  a  part  of 
outward  living;  but  there  is  one  too  intimate  and 
tender  to  disclose  to  any.  It  is  the  mood  of  You, — 
You  and  the  Dawn. 

Relaxed  by  sleep  your  head  rests  softly  in  the  curve 
of  my  warm  neck,  your  moist  breath  falling  like  a 

[25] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 

caress  across  my  bosom;  my  arm  enfolds  your 
shoulder  and  my  hand  lies  close  above  your  heart. 
Dawn  filters  slowly  through  the  draperies  of  the  win 
dow  and  reveals  in  silhouette  your  profile  'gainst  my 
breast.  Ah,  the  kindly  dawn, — veiling  yet  disclosing 
your  face  there;  veiling  its  every  trace  of  time,  of 
stress,  of  pain, — disclosing  its  strong  beauty,  its 
nobility,  its  mobile  gentleness.  I  lean  my  cheek 
against  the  cushion  of  your  hair  and  contemplate: 
You  and  the  Dawn  *  *  * 

What  matter  that  the  dawn  portends  the  scorching 
noon-tide, — the  melancholy  night?  My  mood  of  you 
excludes  them,  quite.  A  deep  unspeakable  content 
pervades  my  mind  and  fills  my  heart, — the  sweet  con 
tent  of  life's  fulfillment. 

The  while  my  mood  of  you  abides  there  is  to  me  no 
other  thing  in  time  or  space  than  this: 

You — and  the  Dawn. 


[26] 


Prose  and  Verse 


TO  A  PINE  TREE 


I 


N  solitude's  immensity, 
With  brow  serene  and  high, 
A  silhouette  of  density 
Against  the  bending  sky, 

With  roots  locked  'round  the  nurturing  veins 
Of  mother  nature's  breast, 
And  arms  outstretched  to  winds  and  rains 
From  vaults  of  east  and  west; — 
A  better  type  I  could  not  need 
Of  perfect  strength  and  calm, 
No  fears  to  fight,  no  hopes  to  feed, 
No  dreams  of  help  or  harm. 
Glad  would  I  be  to  lay  this  shell 
Harassed  by  human  strife 
Upon  the  mound  which  feeds  so  well 
Thy  strong  and  simple  life; — 
To  feel  these  restless  atoms  flow 
Through  nature's  heart  to  thee, 
And  by  this  transmutation  know 
Thy  great  serenity. 


[27] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


SONG 

^KYLARK !    Have  you  heard  the  news? 
Summer,  wondrous  summer  is  begun! 

Ah,  I  would  soar  with  you 

Into  the  mystic  blue, 
Singing  to  the  summer  sun! 

Starling!    Have  you  heard  the  news? 

Summer,  red-lipped  summer  is  begun! 

Yea,  she  has  climbed  from  snows 
Into  the  heart  of  the  rose, 

Blooming  in  love's  summer  sun ! 


[28] 


Prose  and  Verse 


IN  THE  PARK 


A 


GIANT  disc  of  scarlet  poppies  spreads  at  my 

feet,— 
A  mat  of  flame  upon  the  green  expanse. 

The  gleam  and  glow  of  this  incarnate  thing 

Exhales,  as  'twere,  a  subtle  incense 

Which  wreathes  itself  about  me 

And  stirs  to  mutiny  my  senses. 

Yearnings  that  I  had  shrived  and  laid  away 

Quicken  derisively, 

And  unlived  ecstasies  lay  hold  upon  me 

And  clamor  for  fulfillment. 

Alas,  these  ruddy  petals 

Do  but  flaunt  their  sensuous  beauty 

To  lash  a  vain  desire  and  mock  my  loneliness. 

O,  little  hurrying  cloud,  I  beg  you  stoop, 

Enfold  me  in  your  cooling  veil, 

And  on  the  bosom  of  the  wind  dispel  this  pulsing 
want! 

Or  bear  me  to  some  solitary  niche  of  earth 

Where  dull  despair  and  I  may  lie  together  in  aban 
don. 

[29] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


BUTTERFLIES 


B 


•UTTERFLIES!  Butterflies!  Wings  of  my  spirit ! 
Floating  afar  over  meadow  and  sea; 
Colorful  fragments  that  shimmer  and  glisten, 
Tinged  with  the  sadness  and  gladness  of  me. 

There  on  a  daffodil,  poised  like  a  jewel; 
Yonder  aloft,  like  a  sun-beam  at  play; 
Butterflies  pale  as  a  maiden's  first  sorrow; 
Butterflies  bright  as  her  nuptial  day. 

There  is  sweet  Faith,  in  novitiate  whiteness! 
Ah,  but  those  velvety  stipples  of  doubt 
Dotting  with  purple  thy  sails,  my  beauty! 
Nor  can  the  sweep  of  the  winds  fan  them  out. 

Yonder  is  Hope,  evanescent  and  golden! 
Sail  on  and  upward,  my  radiant  one ! 
Touch  not  thy  frail  wing  to  earth,  lest  it  falter! 
Winnow  thy  flight  to  the  cloud-pillowed  sun! 

Love,  too,  is  there,  undulating,  seductive, 
Wafting  a  kiss  to  the  dewy  wild-rose; 
Flirting  with  flag-lily,  flox  and  red-clover, 
Palpitant,  teasing,  with  never  repose. 

Butterflies!  Butterflies!  Tell  me,  whence  come  ye? 
Wherefore  not  tarry  a  moment  today? 

[30] 


Prose  and  Verse 

Whither  disperse  ye  from  my  verdant  meadows? 
What  is  it  beckons  and  lures  you  away? 

Faith,  Hope  and  Love  I  would  name  you,  my  treas 
ures; 

Yea,  too,  wan  Sorrow,  and  pensive  Regret; 
Mingling  and  vanishing,  exquisite  shadow-shapes 
Tracing  on  azure  life's  mute  silhouette. 

Butterflies!   Butterflies!   Wings  of  my  spirit! 
Pathless  and  silent  ye're  come  and  are  gone! 
Out  of  the  nothingness — into  the  nowhere; 
Fringed  with  the  darkness  and  flecked  with  the  dawn. 


[31] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


;          J       J/2 

YOUR  VOICE 


(To  M.  W.) 

X  STOOD  amid  the  multitude,  a-weary,  and  there 

seemed 
No  thing  attuned  unto  myself,  no  heart  that  under 

stood 

The  sob  and  smile  within  my  own,  amid  that  mul 
titude. 

And  then,  one  day  I  heard  your  voice, 

And,  hearing,  was  at  rest. 
So  deep,  so  warm,  so  tender  is  your  understanding 

heart, 
So  rich,  so  sweet,  so  wonderful  the  music  in  your 

soul, 

That  I  thereby  am  put  in  chord  with  all  the  mul 
titude  ; 

For  in  your  voice  humanity 
Doth  sob  and  smile. 


[32] 


Prose  and  Verse 


O'ER  THE  WAY 


O 


FT  in  the  stilly  night,  across  the  way 
I  hear  a  little  child  cry  plaintively, 
And  well  I  know  a  gentle  hand 
Soothes  it  again  to  slumberland, — 

Dear  little  love-flower  o'er  the  way. 

My  hands  lie  impotently  on  my  breast, 
Where  never  baby-head  shall  stir  or  rest. 
Sleep  beckons,  and  in  realms  divine 
I  clasp  a  star-child  that  is  mine, — 

My  little  dream-flower  o'er  the  way. 


[33] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


LINES  SENT  WITH  A  MINIATURE 


I 


F  in  this  pictured  face  you  can  but  trace 
A  memory  that  stirs  your  heart  to  cheer, 
Or  if  you  find  therein  a  might-have-been 
To  muse  o'er  when  no  other  face  is  near, 
Then  let  your  finger-tips, — perchance  your  lips, 
Lay  gently  there  a  lingering  caress, 
And  at  your  touch  I  swear  you  shall  find  there 
Sentient  response  to  that  mute  tenderness. 


[34] 


Prose  and  Verse 


TO  A  LITTLE  OLD-FASHIONED  GIRL* 


I 


N  a  simple  and  dust-tarnished  frame  on  the  wall 
Hangs  an  old-timey  likeness,  faded  and  small, 
Just  a  quaint  little  girl,  with  a  prim,  sawdust  doll, — 

A  dear  little  old-fashioned  girl. 
She  sits  very  straight,  in  a  cane-seated  chair; 
A  smooth  little  head-band  holds  back  her  hair; 
And  her  copper-toed  shoes  are  so  tiny  and  queer; — 

A  dear  little  old-fashioned  girl. 

Oh,  dear  little  girl,  how  I  wish  you  could  say 
What  your  thoughts  are,  and  if  you  are  living  today ! 
Are  you  still  fair  and  rosy?  or  feeble  and  gray? 

You  dear  little  old-fashioned  girl! 
In  place  of  your  doll,  with  its  stiff,  china  hair 
Does  a  soft  little  babe  of  your  own  nestle  there? 
Are  your  days  full  of  drizzle?  or  sunny  and  fair, 

My  dear  little  old-fashioned  girl? 

You  look  at  me  earnestly.    Maybe  you  know 
That  I,  too,  was  a  little  girl  once — long  ago. 
It  seems  like  a  beautiful  dream,  but  it's  so, 

My  dear  little  old-fashioned  girl ! 
And  you  somehow  bring  into  the  hurrying  days 
The  quieting  charm  of  your  own  simple  ways, 

[35] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 

That  cheers  me  and  soothes  me,  and  tranquilly  stays, 
You  dear  little  old-fashioned  girl. 

You  sit  very  still,  and  you  say  not  a  word, 

But  deep  in  my  heart  your  sweet  prattle  is  heard 

Like  the  ripple  of  water,  or  warble  of  bird, 

You  dear  little  old-fashioned  girl! 
Your  sweet  presence  glows  like  a  beautiful  star; 
So  calm  and  so  fair,  though  so  dim  and  so  far; 
And  I  love  you  because  you  are  just  what  you  are, — 

A  dear  little  old-fashioned  girl. 


*An  edition  of  this  poem  with  musical  accompaniment  by  the 
author  is  published  by  Clayton  F.  Summy  Co.,  Chicago,  through 
whose  kind  permission  the  lines  are  here  printed. 

[36] 


Prose  and  Verse 


A 


MA  BELLE 

(To  H.  B.) 


GLEAMING  coil  of  silken  strands, 
Touched  by  the  sun-god's  dimpled  hands, 
A  subtle  fragrance  on  the  air, — 
Her  hair. 

A  bit  of  dusk,  a  bit  of  light, 
A  lingering  sunbeam  kissed  by  night, 
Mirth's  scimitar,  truth's  paradise, — 
Her  eyes. 

A  bow  of  rose-leaves  strung  with  pearls, 
A  cupid  shaking  saucy  curls, 
A  flower  where  joy  sweet  nectar  sips, — 
Her  lips. 

A  blue-bell  rung  by  elfin  hands, 
A  fountain  spraying  on  white  sands, 
A  teasing  bit  of  golden  chaff, — 
Her  laugh. 

A  velvet  rose  of  nameless  hue, 
Warm  as  the  sun,  fresh  as  the  dew, 
Here  let  my  cheek  be  mutely  pressed; — 
Her  breast. 

[37] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


H 


THE  TREASURE-BOX* 

(Of  Ninon  de  Lenclos) 


OW  smooth  is  its  ebony  surface!    How  fine 
And  mellow  the  trace  of  this  ivory  line! 
How  well  it  has  guarded  through  each  passing  year 
The  treasures  that  now  lie  disclosed  to  me  here ! 


A  packet  of  letters!   Ah,  'twas  with  young  hands 

I  folded  them  under  these  delicate  bands! 
How  well  I  remember  the  day  that  we  met !     *     *     * 

Yes,  yes,  at  Verona;  I  could  not  forget 
The  gown  that  I  wore!     'Twas  my  first  polonaise — 

A  buff-colored  satin  with  violet  sprays. 
Throughout   the   whole   season   these   love-missives 
came,     *     *     * 

And  yet  I  recall  not  the  dear  fellow's  name ! 

And  this  bizarre  girdle  from  old  Trinidad 

I  wore  at  de  Maintenon's  bal  masquerade ! 

'Tis  broken.   Ah,  yes,  'twas  crushed  I've  no  doubt 
By  the  too  ardent  pressure  of  arms  thereabout! 

'Twas  only  the  clasp  of  my  corsage,  withal, 

That  yielded  its  hold  at  de  Maintenon's  ball ! 

[38] 


Prose  and  Verse 

And,  pray,  what  avail  were  the  ruse  of  disguise 
If  prudery  still  held  her  mask  o'er  the  eyes? 

And  this!     *     *     *     Can  it  be  that  flower  may  fold 

In  its  petals  the  kiss  that  was  pressed  there  of 

old? 
That  its  color  may  vanish,  its  fragrance  may  die, 

Yet  shroud  the  warm  tear  of  a  sorrowing  eye? 
E'en  so,  I  swear  by  this  frivolous  fan — 

This     sweet-scented,     sandal-wood     breath     of 

Japan — 
That  nothing  of  cheerlessness  shall  you  impart, 

And  only  your  beauty  shall  dwell  in  my  heart. 

A  bit  of  old  lace  from  the  sleeve  of  Conde! — 

A     dance-programme     bearing     the     arms     of 

d'Estrees!— 
And  this  quaint  medallion  encircled  with  blue — 

From  my  red-robed  adorer,  Richelieu! 
What  lovers  to  contemplate! — aged  and  young! 

What  eager  vows  whispered!    What  madrigals 

sung! 
This  sonnet  La  Rochefoucauld  penned  with  such  art 

Were  enough  to  subdue  e'en  a  termagant's  heart ! 

Ah,  drear  were  the  autumn  of  life  did  not  Spring 
On  memory's  canvas  her  daffodils  fling ! 

And  wisdom  would  be  but  a  dullard,  forsooth, 
Had  folly  not  schooled  him  a  bit  in  his  youth ! 

I  close  your  smooth  lid,  I  turn  your  small  key, 

Consigning  to  silence  these  phantoms  of  me; — 

[39] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 

The  coquetries,  sophistries,  laughter  and  love 

I  garnered  from  life,  here  to  be  treasure-trove, — 

That  only  your  depths  and  my  day-dreams  may  know 
The  colorful  past  of  Ninon  de  Lenclos. 


*Madame  de  Lenclos:  Born  at  Paris,  1616:  died  there  1706: 
A  noted  French  woman  of  pleasure.  She  retained  her  beauty 
and  charm  to  a  very  old  age.  She  received  the  highest  society 
in  her  salon,  which  was  compared  for  its  tone  with  the  Hotel 
Rambouillet.  Madame  Scarron  (afterward  de  Maintenon), 
Madame  de  Lafayette  and  Christina  of  Sweden  were  her  friends. 
St.  Evremond,  La  Rochefoucauld,  D'Estrees,  the  great  Conde 
and  three  generations  of  the  family  of  Sevigne  were  among  her 
lovers.  According  to  Voltaire  Richelieu  was  the  first  of  these. 

The  Century  Dictionary  and  Encyclopedia. 
[40] 


Prose  and  Verse 


A  SOUTHERN  VALENTINE 

L  HEAR  the  katy-did  a-scrapin'  on  his  silver  wing, 
Beseechin'  little  katy-did  to  come  an'  hear  him  sing; 

I  see  the  fire-fly  sittin'  on  the  sweet-potato-vine, 
Tryin'  to  coax  his  lady-love  to  come  and  see  him 
shine ; 

I  hear  the  water  tricklin'  through  the  shadows  'roun' 

the  mill, 
A-lookin'  for  the  sunbeam  that  kissed  it  on  the  hill; 

I  smell  the  yellow  honey-suckle  by  the  window-pane 
As  it  sends  its  fragrance  searchin'  for  its  lover-lass, 
the  rain; 

I  hear  the  whippoor-will  a-callin'  from  the  meadow 

gate, 
Sort  o'  sad  and  lonesome-like,  unto  his  absent  mate; 

So  with  all  these  little  lovers  I  fell  to  lovin',  too; 
And  it  set  my  heart  to  singin',  and  I  send  the  song 
to  you. 


[41] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


T 


THE  LITTLE  RING 


HE  little  ring  you  gave  to  me 

I  yet  shall  hold, 
And  to  my  lips  shall  nightly  press 

Its  rim  of  gold; 
Against  my  heart  when  life  is  done 

It  still  shall  lie, 
Dear  symbol  of  a  perfect  love 

That  cannot  die. 


o 


MEMORY 


H  Memory,  thou  phantom  child, 
I  know  not  whence  thou'rt  come, 
Nor  if  in  other  realms  than  this 
My  heart  shall  be  thy  home; 
But  while  thou'rt  mine  I'll  hold  thee  close 
And  thy  caress  beguile, 
As  to  thy  lips  my  own  I  press 
With  tears  or  smile. 


[42] 


Prose  and  Verse 


THE  TRUNDLE-BED* 


I 


SOMETIMES  draw  apart  the  heavy  curtain  of 

the  years 

And  look  into  the  dim  and  tender  past; 
Again  a  little  child  I  seem, — a  child  of  smiles  and 

tears, 

Such  as  in  memory  you, — and  you,  hold  fast. 
The  busy  day  is  ended;  the  toys  are  laid  away, 

The  "Now  I  lay  me"  said  in  cozy  gown, 
And  'neath  the  flow'ry  patch-work  quilt,  where  fire 
light  shadows  play, 
Into  my  trundle-bed  I  nestle  down. 

No  art  was  used  to  fashion  that  little  trundle-bed; 

No  rare  tradition  marks  its  history; 
And  yet  about  its  simple  frame,  from  stubby  foot  to 

head, 

There  seems  to  dwell  a  hallowed  mystery — 
The   mystery   of   mother-love,   that   wreathes    itself 

about 

The  curly  head  there  pillowed  with  such  care, 
And  like  a  benediction,  caressing  and  devout, 
I  hear  again  the  old,  familiar  air: 
"Hush  my  dear,  lie  still  and  slumber, 
Holy  angels  guard  thy  bed." 

[43] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 

We  leave  without  regret  youth's  painted  toys  along 

the  way, 

As  the  tomorrows  glide  into  the  past, 
And  in  our  turn  take  up  life's  work,  or  enter  in  its 

play, 

But  one  dear  vision  hold  we  to  the  last. 
'Tis  the  vision  of  a  gentle  mother  bending  o'er  her 

child, 

With  ever  patient  touch  and  gentle  tread; 
And  back  to  tranquil  yesterdays  our  hearts  are  still 

beguiled, 
In  day-dreams  of  a  little  trundle-bed. 


*An  edition  of  this  poem  with  musical  accompaniment  by  the 
author  is  published  by  Clayton  F.  Summy  Co.,  Chicago,  through 
whose  kind  permission  the  lines  are  here  printed. 

[44] 


Prose  and  Verse 


w 


YOU 

(To  O.  L.) 


HAT  is  the  charm  of  you?    Whence  the  allure 

of  you? 

This  do  I  ask  as  I  look  in  the  face  of  you. 
Is  it  the  womanly  courage  and  cheer  of  you? 
Is  it  the  tenderness  pearling  the  tear  of  you? 
Is  it  the  mien  of  you,  gracious  and  kind? 
Is  it  the  myriad  reach  of  your  mind? 
Is  it  the  sweet  little  devil  that  peeks  at  you 
Out  of  the  rose-cups  that  dimple  the  cheeks  of  you? 
Is  it  the  gentle  and  delicate  art  of  you? 
Is  it  the  wonderful,  wonderful  heart  of  you? 

Ah,  it  is  every  delectable  bit  of  you, 
From  tippy-toes  to  the  fair- templed  wit  of  you; 
Happily  yield  I  in  full  to  the  thrall  of  you, 
All-of-me  loving  the  exquisite  all-of-you. 


[45] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


THE  DESK  CLERK 

J.  STAND  as  a  shackled  slave,  enstalled  by  the  grip 

of  fate, 
'Round  me  the  mortised  town  pulsing  with  love  and 

hate; 

Haltered  to  pen  and  file  early  and  late  I  stand; 
Tethered  to  desk  and  stool,  brain  and  limb  and  hand. 

The  bigness  of  all  the  past,  the  beauty  of  eons  gone 
Verge   in   my   spirit's   depths — merge   in   unuttered 

song; 
The  sorrow  of  dying  worlds  moans  in  my  pregnant 

heart, 
Dear  human  love  and  joy  there  mingle  and  depart. 

And  each  through  the  days'  routine  calls  to  my  soul 
for  birth, 

Calls  from  the  vast  unknown  here  to  my  niche  on 
earth ; 

Bitter  their  plea,  yet  sweet  as  the  fall  of  rain  on  my 
face, 

Here  in  my  little  stall,  wedged  midst  the  common 
place. 

He  who  has  basked  on  the  soil,  bathed  in  the  winds 
of  the  plain, 

[46] 


Prose  and  Verse 

Cannot  grant  lease  of  his  soul,  be  it  for  love  or  for 

gain; 
Having  communed  with  the  stars  still  in  his  dreams 

they  shall  glow; 
That  which  they  gave  he  shall  keep ;  that  which  they 

taught  he  shall  know. 

So,  to  my  stall  in  the  mart  measureless  riches  I  bring ; 
Into  the  drab  of  the  hours  golden-hued  fancies  I  fling ; 
Into  the  murk  of  the  days  flows  all  the  crimson  and 

mauve 
I   gleaned  from  the  sun-dowered  fields  and  culled 

from  the  shadow-flecked  grove. 


[47] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


YOUR   DAY-DREAMS: 


D 


REAM  on,  dear  child,  dream  on; 
Dream  while  the  spring  is  in  your  heart! 
Dream  of  white  butterflies  a-wing, 
And  rose-rimmed  clouds  that  dance  apart ! 

Dream  on,  my  lad,  dream  on; 
Dream  of  green  hills  beyond,  afar! 
Dream  of  the  sun-kissed  path  that  leads 
Across  them  to  the  distant  star! 

Dream  on,  comrade,  yea,  dream! 
Follow  your  vision  up  and  on; 
Blend  with  the  days'  dull  commonplace 
The  sweet  refulgence  of  the  dawn. 

Dream  on,  dear  heart,  dream  on! 
Dream  while  life's  mystic  web  you  weave, 
For  at  the  last  'twill  hold  no  stran 
More  fair  than  dreams  you  now  conceive. 

Dream  on,  beloved,  dream! 

Dream  high,— dream  straight, — dream  true! 

For  in  the  realm  of  the  unseen 

Dreams  are  the  soul  of  you. 

*An  edition  of  this  poem  with  musical  accompaniment  is 
published  by  Clayton  F.  Summy  Co.,  Chicago,  through  whose 
kind  permission  the  lines  are  here  printed. 

[48] 

-^W,  ^  r^.,, -^.v  vo      I*7.*1  o-<- s!> 


Prose  and  Verse 


CAP  AND  BELLS 


L, 


fOVE  came  to  me  one  day,  and  laughing  said, 
"How  do  you  like  my  bells  and  cap  of  red?" 
Said  I,  "They're  much  too  frivolous  and  gay!" 
He  turned  upon  his  heel  and  skipped  away. 

Years  passed.     Love  came  again,  and  mutely  stood. 
His  brow  was  shadowed  by  grief's  sombre  hood. 
I  took  him  to  my  heart,  and  pray  that  there 
We'll  find  the  cap  and  bells  he  used  to  wear. 


[49] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


RETRIBUTION 


I 


PLUCKED  a  rose 
And  pressed  my  hungry  lips  into  its  heart; 

The  fragile  thing 
At  my  too  eager  touch  crumbled  apart; 

With  swift  remorse 
I  sought  to  fold  its  petals  close  again, 

Only  to  find 
Them  spread  upon  my  palm  like  crimson  stain. 


[50J 


Prose  and  Verse 


I 


WALKED  through  the  woods  on  yesterday; 
The  leaves  lay  dead  at  my  feet; 

They  rustled  in  jest 

Then  sank  to  rest, 
Awaiting  their  shroud  of  sleet. 
A  lonely  thrush  sang  a  requiem 
'Neath  the  wooded  dome  o'erhead, 

Then  took  his  flight 

With  the  coming  night, 
And  left  me  there  with  the  dead. 

I  roamed  through  the  past  on  yesterday; 
Life's  joys  lay  pallid  and  sweet; 

So  tenderly  fair 

They  rested  there, 
Dead  as  the  leaves  at  my  feet. 
I  sealed  with  a  tear  each  silent  bier, 
And  to  youth  I  said  good-by; 

Then  I  turned  with  a  will 

To  the  star-crowned  hill 
Where  life's  achievements  lie. 


[51] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


A 


,/ 
DAISY  AND  STAR 

(To  L.  B.) 


STAR  shone  in  heaven's  dome,  serene  and  far; 
A  simple  daisy  dared  to  love  that  star; 
Rooted  to  earth  she  was,  yet  with  delight 
She  reached  with  yearning  toward  that  star   each 

night. 

And  lo!   A  star-beam  stooped  and  kissed  her  face. 
And  spread  its  radiance  in  that  lowly  place. 

Ah,  love  finds  love's  abode,  though  near  or  far. 
I  am  that  earth-bound  flow'r;  you  are  the  star. 


[52] 


Prose  and  Verse 


D 


THE  PATCH-WORK   QUILT* 


ID  Grandma  ever  tell  you  about  the  patch-work 

quilt 

That  lies  across  the  sofa  in  her  room? 
It  is  made  from  scraps  of  dresses  that  she  wore  when 

she  was  young, 

And  some  of  them  were  woven  on  a  loom. 
Sometimes  when  it  is  raining  and  I  can't  play  out 

of  doors 

She  lets  me  spread  it  out  upon  the  floor, 
And  as  I  choose  the  pieces  I'd  like  to  hear  about 
She  tells  me  of  the  dresses  that  she  wore. 

It  isn't  just  the  dresses  that  Grandma  tells  about, — 

It's  the  things  that  happened  when  she  had  them  on ; 

And  almost  every  piece  that's  in  that  dear  old  patch 
work  quilt 

Holds  the  mem'ry  of  a  sorrow  or  a  song. 

Oh,  things  were  very  wonderful  when  Grandmama 
was  young; 

You  ought  to  hear  her  tell  about  it  all! 

The  ladies  all  were  beautiful,  the  children  all  were 
good, 

And  the  men  were  all  so  gallant  and  so  tall! 

[53] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 

She  calls  the  quilt  her  memory-bed,  and  every  little 

piece 

Is  a  flower  blooming  in  its  scented  fold; 
There  are  red  ones  for  the  roses,  and  blues  for  "don't 

forgets," 

And  yellow  ones  for  sun-flowers  of  gold. 
There's  one  she  calls  sweet-lavender,  that  smells  like 

baby-clothes, 

And  one  of  purple,  like  the  sun-set  skies; 
I  never  speak  of  these  two,  or  the  grey  one  like  the 

rain, 
For  when  I  do  dear  Grandma  always  cries. 

My  Grandma  told  me  once  that  life  is  just  a  patch 
work  quilt, 

Of  births  and  deaths  and  marriages  and  things, 

And  that  sometimes  when  you're  looking  for  a  lovely 
piece  of  red 

You  only  find  a  knot  of  faded  strings; 

But  she  says  the  red  is  redder  when  it's  by  a  piece 
of  brown, 

And  grey  is  not  so  grey  by  sunny  gold. 

Oh,  I  hope  I'll  have  a  lovely  patch-work  quilt,  like 
Grandmama's, 

To  show  to  little  children  when  I'm  old. 


*An  edition  of  this  poem  with  musical  accompaniment  by  the 
author  is  published  by  Clayton  F.  Summy  Co.,  Chicago,  through 
whose  kind  permission  the  lines  are  here  printed. 

[54] 


Prose  and  Verse 


GRANDMA'S  GARDEN 

JL  KNOW  a  lovely  garden  where  the  sweetest  flow 
ers  grow! 

Oh,  their  beauty  and  their  fragrance! — the  dearest 
flowers  I  know; — 

Just  a  quaint,  old-fashioned  garden,  yet  rare  withal, 
me-thinks, 

Are  its  beds  of — not  carnations,  but,  well — they  are 
just  pinks. 

'Tis  through  an   old,   old   gateway,   and  I've  heard 

Grandma  tell 
How,  when  she  was  a  maiden,  Dan  Cupid  wove  a 

spell 
About  its  mossy  trellises,  and  through  its  pebbled 

walks, 
And   shot  his  silver  arrows  among  its  pink-tipped 

stalks. 

And  as  I  breathe  the  fragrance  of  these  old-fashioned 
flowers 

My  heart  drinks  from  the  chalice  of  those  long-van 
ished  hours; 

For  grandmas  once  were  maidens,  and  Cupid  would, 
me-thinks, 

Make  maidens  lovely  grandmas,  with  gardens  of 
sweet  pinks. 

[55] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


MAMMY'S  SOLDIER-GAL* 

JLN  the  dewy  morn  of  childhood  there  was  ever  at 

my  side 
A  dear,  old,  black-faced  mammy,  my  timid  steps  to 

guide ; 
All  my  childish  troubles  vanished, — flew  away  like 

frightened  birds, 

And  my  trembling  lip  grew  steady  when  I'd  hear  old 
Mammy's  words: 

"Dar  now,  dar  now,  honey! 

You  aint  a-gwine  ter  cry! 

You'se  Mammy's  little  soldier-gal, 

An'  dat's  de  reason  why 

You'se  gwine  ter  stan'  up  straight,  an'  smile! 

Dat's  whut  you  is!    Why,  shoo! 

Dat  aint  nuthin',  honey, 

Fo'  a  soldier-gal,  lak  you!" 

The  broken  doll,  or  tea-set,  the  little  bruised  toe; 
The  have-tos  and  the  mustn'ts, — the  disappointing 

no, — 
Each  grief  she  helped  to  conquer  one  by  one,  and 

day  by  day, 

For  my  pride  and  courage  quickened  when  I'd  hear 
old  Mammy  say: 

"Dar  now,  dar  now,  honey! 
Whut's  dat  in  yo'  eye? 

[56] 


Prose  and  Verse 

You'se  Mammy's  little  soldier-gal, 

An'  soldiers  dey  don'  cry! 

You'se  gwine  ter  stan'  up  straight,  an'  smile! 

Dat's  it !   Dat's  it !  Why,  shoo ! 

Dat  aint  nuthin',  honey, 

Fo'  a  soldier-gal,  lak  you." 

Many  years  ago  dear  Mammy  went  to  sleep,  with 

folded  hands; 
Yet  sometimes  her  little  soldier  feels  that  Mammy 

understands 
When  the  cherished  toys  lie  shattered,  and  the  ugly 

bruises  pain, 

For    a   voice    seems   calling,    calling,    like    an    echo 
through  the  rain: 

"Dar  now,  dar  now,  honey, 

You  aint  a-gwine  ter  cry! 

You'se  Mammy's  little  soldier-gal, 

An'  dat's  de  reason  why 

You'se  gwine  ter  stan'  up  straight,  an'  smile, 

Jes'  lak  you  used  to  do! 

Dat  aint  nuthin',  honey, 

Fo'  a  soldier-gal,  lak  you." 


*An  edition  of  this  poem  with  musical  accompaniment  by  the 
author  is  published  by  Clayton  F.  Summy  Co.,  Chicago,  through 
whose  kind  permission  the  lines  are  here  printed. 

[57] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


FLOWER  AND  MAID 

Q 

OAID  the  bee  unto  the  flower: 
"Let  me  of  your  honey  sip!" 
Said  the  man  unto  the  maiden: 
"Let  me  kiss  your  glowing  lip!" 

"Drink  thou  freely,"  said  the  flower; 
"I  but  bloom  my  sweets  to  give." 
"Aye,  my  love,"  replied  the  maiden, 
"  "Tis  in  giving  that  I  live." 

And  the  flower,  still  a  flower, 
Bloomed  serene,  with  heart  of  flame; 
But  the  maid,  no  longer  maiden 
Wore  the  scarlet  badge  of  shame. 

X 


58] 


Prose  and  Verse 


MY  CASTLE 

JL  BUILDED  me  a  castle,  a  castle  in  the  air; 

'Twas  fashioned  in  a  day-dream,  and  it  was  wond'rous 
fair; 

Its  turrets  were  of  star-stuff,  its  dome  was  azure- 
browed  ; 

Its  far-spread  terraces  were  laid  with  mauve  and 
crimson  cloud. 

And  in  my  phantom  castle  no  servient  vassal  knelt; 
There,  panoplied  in  purple,  no  sceptered  monarch 

dwelt ; 
No  footstep  passed  its  portals,  no  voice  stirred  in  its 

halls; 
Only  my  treasured  fancies  peopled  its  ambient  walls. 

My  castle — shall  it  vanish?    No;  by  my  life  I  swear 
That  till  I've  drained  love's  chalice  I  shall  hold  revel 
there. 


[59] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


THE  WOOING 


I 


N  a  garden  of  glad  flowers 
Wooed  by  summer  sun  and  showers 

Drooped  a  rose-bud  on  her  stem; 
Buds  around  her  opening  daily 
Nodded  to  each  other  gaily, 

But  she  seemed  not  one  of  them. 

Ever  there  in  silence  bending, 
Never  from  her  bosom  sending 

Breath  of  fragrance  on  the  air; 
Opening  not  to  spray  of  fountain 
Or  to  zephyr  from  the  mountain 

She  was  passionless  as  fair. 

Then  the  night-wind  came  and  swayed  her, 
Boldly  on  his  bosom  laid  her, 

Drew  her  to  him,  held  her  fast; 
And  her  leaves  relaxed  their  tightness 
Round  their  shrine  of  virgin  whiteness, 

Yielding  there  her  heart  at  last. 

To  its  purest  depths  she  led  him, 
On  its  sweetest  fragrance  fed  him 

Until  all  the  night  had  flown; 
And  her  sisters  in  the  morning 
Saw  no  bud  that  stem  adorning, 

But  a  perfect  rose,  full  blown. 
[60] 


Prose  and  Verse 


THE  PLEIADES 

C 

OEVEN  fair  sisters  live  up  in  the  sky; 

I  wonder  how  ever  they  climbed  so  high! 
They're  dreadfully  old,  but  they've  never  been  wed; 
They  never  were  born,  and  they'll  never  be  dead. 
Every  night  when  the  sun  goes  down 
They  dress  themselves  each  in  a  spangled  gown; 
And  if  it  is  fair  they  promenade  there, — 
These  gay  old  girls  in  the  sky! 

Each  wears  a  diamond  upon  her  brow; — 
'Twas  the  gift  of  some  god,  I'd  almost  vow! 
Never  a  scandal  has  touched  their  name, 
But  even  if  naughty  they'd  not  be  to  blame. 
And  I  shouldn't  wonder  that  many  a  lark 
Is  had  up  there — when  the  nights  are  dark; 
With  a  cloud  for  a  screen  they  couldn't  be  seen, — 
These  gay  old  girls  in  the  sky! 

I've  seen  them  wink  at  the  man  in  the  moon 
In  spite  of  the  lady  he  seems  to  spoon, 
And  the  dipper  I  wager  they'd  drink  quite  dry 
If  it  weren't  that  it's  fastened  so  tight  to  the  sky! 
They  shamelessly  practice  their  cunning  wiles 
On  old  Orion,  to  win  his  smiles, 

[61] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 

And  it  may  be  that  yet  he'll  be  caught  in  the  net 
Of  these  rollicking  frolicking 
Girls  in  the  sky! 

Now,  if  you  are  naughty,  and  don't  say  your  prayers, 
When  you  wend  your  way  up  the  golden  stairs 
You'll  not  get  a  harp,  and  you'll  not  get  a  crown, 
For  old  Saint  Peter  will  turn  you  down! 
But  don't  try  to  break  through  the  golden  gate, 
Nor  gloomily  stand  and  bemoan  your  fate, 
But  just  leave  your  card,  and  go  in  the  big  yard 
And  play  with  the  gay  little 
Girls  in  the  sky! 


[62] 


Prose  and  Verse 


THEN  AND  NOW* 


T 


HEN — her  length  was  twenty  inches, 
Now — her  waist  exceeds  that  girth; 
Then — the  moon  was  her  desire, 
Now — she  simply  wants  the  earth. 

Then — she  grasped  a  small  tin  rattle, 
Now — she  steers  a  limousine; 
Then — her  dress  a  simple  cotton, 
Now — it  wears  a  dazzling  sheen. 

Then — one  ringlet  crowned  her  forehead, 
Now — it's  coifed  with  puffs  and  plat; 
Then — a  little  cap  of  worsted, 
Now — a  fifty-dollar  hat. 

Then — her  words  were  few  and  lisping, 
Now — she  doesn't  lisp;  she  spiels; 
Then — her  little  foot  was  sockless, 
Now — she  wears  Du  Barry  heels. 

Then — her  jewels  were  but  dimples, 
Now — they  sparkle  like  the  sun; 
Then — her  day  would  end  at  twilight, 
Now — at  dusk  it's  just  begun. 

[63] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


Then — her  drink  was  white  and  luke-warm, 
Now — it's  amber,  and  is  cold; 
Then — it  must  be  fresh,  and  sweetened, 
Now — it's  "dry,"  and  very  old. 

Then — life's  pendulum  swung  slowly, 
Now — it's  moving  pretty  fast; 
Then — Mi-Nino,  with  a  future, 
Now — Milady,  with  a  past. 


*Copyrighted  by  Life  Publishing  Co.,  and  here  used  by  their 
permission. 

[64] 


Prose  and  Verse 


THE  BEETLE  PARTY 


M: 


.ISTRESS  BEETLE  gave  a  party 
At  the  rose-bush  by  the  wall; 
She  had  a  lovely  programme 
And  refreshments  for  them  all. 
Miss  Cricket  sang  a  solo, 
And  Miss  Honey-Bee  sang,  too, 
Accompanied  by  Katy-Did, 
Who  scraped  her  wings  'most  through! 
They  all  enjoyed  the  menu; 
The  fresh  honey  was  a  treat; 
'Twas  served  in  rose-leaf  saucers, 
And  was  so  cool  and  sweet ! 
The  table  was  a  toad-stool, 
The  eating-fork  a  thorn; 
The  dew  was  served  in  blue-bells 
And  was  gathered  fresh  at  morn. 
Miss  June-Bug's  dress  was  gorgeous, 
And  when  Miss  Fire-Fly  came 
She  made  quite  a  sensation 
In  her  handsome  skirt  of  flame! 
Miss  Yellow- Jacket's  costume 
Was  striped, — a  perfect  fit; 
Her  waist  is  much  too  slender 
But  she  seems  quite  proud  of  it! 
Miss  Lady-Bug  is  charming; 

[65] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


She  certainly  looks  well 
In  that  polka-dotted  satin. 
She's  decidedly  a  belle! 
When  the  Spider-sisters  entered 
It  created  quite  a  din; 
They  really  weren't  invited! 
They  just  happened  to  "drop  in." 
They're  smart,  but  no  one  likes  them; 
They  hardly  left  the  wall ; 
They're  not  one  bit  attractive 
And  have  no  style  at  all! 
Lord  Caterpillar's  getting  fat; 
He  wore  his  overcoat. 
It  has  a  big  fur  collar 
That  comes  up  'round  his  throat. 
He  must  be  quite  rheumatic, 
For  he  didn't  take  it  off. 
And  little  old  Miss  Frog  was  there! 
She  has  an  awful  cough! 
Miss  Mosquito  tried  to  gossip 
With  her  naughty  little  wings; 
Her  voice  is  so  unpleasant, 
And  she  says  such  stinging  things! 
Miss  Grass-Hopper  seemed  happy, 
And  wore  her  usual  smile; 
She's  rather  green  and  awkward,  though; 
I  do  not  like  her  style ; 
She  keeps  her  arms  a-kimbo, 
And  her  feet  up  near  her  waist; 
Her  manners  are  not  graceful, 
She  moves  with  too  much  haste! 
Grand-Daddy-Long-Legs  came  quite  late, — 

[66] 


Prose  and  Verse 

Walked  all  the  way,  I'm  told; 

He's  really  very  dapper 

For  one  considered  old! 

Some  of  them  came  in  airplanes, 

Each  steering  his  machine; 

As  expert  aviators 

They're  the  best  I've  ever  seen! 

So,  you  see,  the  Beetle  party 
Was  quite  a  smart  affair! 
Next  time  they're  entertaining 
I  hope  you'll  all  be  there ! 


[67] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


THE  CELIBATE 


A 


THISTLE  searched  the  garden  to  choose  a  wife 

for  mate, 

And  having  made  a  full  survey  he  thus  did  contem 
plate  : 

"The  bean  is  quite  too  stringy;  the  corn  is  over-tall; 
The  pumpkin  is  too  portly ;  the  pea  is  far  too  small ; 
The  pepper  is  too  saucy;  the  cabbage  has  no  style; 
The  cucumber  is  seedy ;  the  onion's  breath  is  vile ; 
The  beet  is  much  too  florid ;  the  carrot  is  too  lean ; 
The  turnip  is  too  squatty ;  the  lettuce  is  too  green. 

"Indeed,  I'll  wed  with  none  of  them!    'Twould  mor 
tify  my  pride !" 

And  so  he  laid  down  by  himself  and  shrivelled  up 
and  died. 


[68] 


Prose  and  Verse 


THE   PROD* 
"rp 

1  ICK,  tock,  tick,  tock," 

The  old  clock  said; 
"It's  broad  day  light ! 

Better  get  out  o'  bed !" 
"Tick,  tock,  tick,  tock," 

It  said  later  on; 
"Better  get  to  bed ! 

The  night's  'most  gone!" 


*An  edition  of  this  poem  with  musical  accompaniment  by  the 
author  is  published  by  Clayton  F.  Summy  Co.,  Chicago,  through 
whose  kind  permission  the  lines  are  here  printed. 

[69] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


AN  EASTER  IDYL* 


I 


T'S  just  a  little  bonnet, 
With  a  single  rose  upon  it, 
And  the  little  face  beneath  it 
Is  quite  serene  and  still; 
But  it  took  a  week  to  buy  it, 
And  it  takes  an  hour  to  tie  it, 
And  Heaven  only  knows  how  long 
'Twill  take  to  pay  the  bill ! 


*Copyrighted  by  Life  Publishing  Co.,  and  here  used  by  their 
permission. 

[70] 


Prose  and  Verse 


TWO  MICE* 


A 


MOUSE  sat  busily  nibbling  cheese. 
It  was  a  Mister  Mouse,  if  you  please. 
In  came  a  lady-mouse,  trim  and  cute, 
All  dolled  up  in  a  grey  suede  suit. 

Ho-ho ! 

The  bit  of  cheese  chanced  to  conceal 
A  little  hook  of  sharpened  steel, 
And  as  he  turned  to  meet  her  glance 
The  hook  quite  spoiled  his  little  pants! 

Oh!  Oh! 

Her  flight  was  most  abrupt,  'tis  true; 
But  then,  her  nice  grey  suit  was  new! 
And  cautious  lady-mice  all  know 
Suede  panties  can't  be  made, — they  grow! 

Just  so. 


*An  edition  of  this  poem  with  musical  accompaniment  by  the 
author  is  published  by  Clayton  F.  Summy  Co.,  Chicago,  through 
whose  kind  permission  the  lines  are  here  printed. 

[71] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


TO  THE  HORSE  I  LEFT  BEHIND  ME 


I 


WANT  you,  Dolly  Gray,  so  I  do ! 
I  want  to  roam  the  fragrant  fields  with  you. 
I  want  to  stand  beside  you  'mid  the  hay ; 
I  want  to  hear  you  stamp  your  foot  and  neigh ; 
I  want  to  press  your  flank, — off  and  away ! 
Dolly  Gray! 

I  want  you,  Dolly  Gray,  that  I  do ! 
I  want  to  skirt  the  singing  stream  with  you. 
I  want  to  feel  the  sun-shot  air 
Press  on  my  brow  and  through  my  hair 
And  leave  its  gold-brown  kisses  there ; 
Dolly  Gray! 

I  want  you,  Dolly  Gray,  so  I  do ! 
And  by  the  gods  I  soon  shall  have  you,  too ! 
To  far  Arcadia's  mystic  zone 
We  two  shall  hasten — we  alone ! 
Here's  to  you,  silver  pearl!  my  own 
Dolly  Gray! 


[72] 


Prose  and  Verse 


1   COMPENSATION 


I 


T'S  a  woolly  old  way  we're  trav'lin'; 
It's  a  gamble  what's  the  end; 
But  there's  one  thing  worth  the  journey, 
And  that  one  thing's  a  friend. 

It's  a  tough  old  game  that's  runnin'; 
It  takes  nerve  to  play  it  through; 
But  the  jack-pot's  worth  the  ante 
If  it  holds  a  friend  or  two. 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


A 


FOOLS 


FOOL  there  was — yea,  two  there  were, 
To  whom  life's  road  spread  wide; 
They  might  have  led  the  caravan; 
Instead,  they  turned  aside. 

A  fool  there  was — yea,  there  were  two; 
Love's  flagon  stood  hard-by; 
But  being  fools  they  left  it  there, 
The  while  their  lips  were  dry. 

A  fool  there  was — two  fools  were  there, 
Who  let  the  years  grow  grey; 
They  might  have  strung  them  into  hours 
Of  joyous  roundelay. 

A  fool  there  was — and  one  fool  more, — 
A  he-fool  and  a  she, 
Two  faltering,  fear-fettered  fools, — 
A  you-fool  and  a  me. 


[74] 


Prose  and  Verse 


THE  HANGING 

VV  ERE  you  ever  at  a  hanging,  Auntie  dear?" 

"Mercy,  no!" 
"Well,  there's  surely  going  to  be  one  now  and  here; 

Let's  go! 
It's  a  wicked  Chinese  lady,  dressed  in  red; 

Come  and  see! 

And  she's  going  to  be  left  hanging  till  she's  dead!" 
"Dear  me !" 

With  a  merry  little  twinkle  in  his  eye, 

Hurrying, 
He  led  me  down  the  hall  to  see  her  die ; — 

Poor  thing! 
Then  climbing  on  a  chair  he  hung  her  picture 

On  the  wall, 

And   turned   and   looked   at  me   and   laughed  and 
laughed ! 

That's  all. 


[75] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


THE  CRICKET 


I 


LISTEN  to  the  cricket;  squeak,  squeak,  squawk; 
My,  I  would  be  lonesome  if  I  couldn't  hear  him  talk ! 
I  sit  there  by  the  fire  when  I'm  s'posed  to  be  in  bed, 
An'  then  all  of  a  sudden  I  hear  him  scratch  his  head. 

I  wonder  where  he  comes  from,  an'  where  he  hides 

away! 

I  never  hear  him  chirping  or  see  him  in  the  day; 
But  every  night  he's  down  there  in  the  corner  by  the 

cat, 
An'  if  I  make  a  bit  of  noise  he  shuts  up — just  like 

that! 

If  I'm  quite  still  he  tells  me  a-many  a  funny  thing ; 
He  says  the  room's  a  big  world,  an'  that  I  am  its 

king ! — 
That  the  chair  I'm  in's  a  castle,  an'  the  carpet  is  a 

moat, 
An'  that  the  bed's  an  ocean  and  the  pillow  is  a  boat. 

He  calls  the  broom  a  gen'ral,  with  straws  for  soldier- 
boys 

That  march,  march,  march,  without  a  bit  of  noise; 

An'  that  the  lamp's  a  mountain  where  the  sun's  about 
to  set. 

But  if  I  crook  my  finger  he  shuts  up — just  like  that! 

[76] 


Prose  and  Verse 

'Nen,  after  while  the  fire  goes  out  an'  I  jump  into  bed, 
An'  pull  the  sheet  and  blanket  up  all  around  my  head, 
An'  he  just  talks  me  right  to  sleep — down  in  the  cor 
ner  there ; 

An'  when  I  wake  next  mornin'  I  can't  find  him  any 
where  ! 


[77] 


Sketches  in  Lyric 


IF  THE  TREES  COULD  TALK 


I 


F  the  trees  in  the  orchard  could  talk  to  me 
Of  the  things  they  know,  oh,  how  wise  I'd  be ! 
I'd  know  why  the  leaves  are  so  green  today 
Instead  of  being  all  blue,  or  grey  ; 
I'd  know  where  the  birds  come  from  in  the  spring, 
And  where  they  learn  all  the  songs  they  sing; 
Oh,  I'd  get  them  to  tell  me  everything — 
If  the  trees  could  talk  to  me. 

I'd  learn  all  the  secrets  of  the  wind, 
And  where  the  blossoms  their  fragrance  find ; — 
Why  some  are  yellow  and  others  white; 
And  what  the  katy-did  chirps  at  night ; 
And  how  in  the  world  a  dew-drop  knows 
How  to  find  the  heart  of  the  thirsty  rose ; 
I'd  know  what  the  brook  sings  as  it  flows — 
If  the  trees  could  talk  to  me. 

I'd  know  why  the  song  of  the  dove  seems  sad, 
And  that  of  the  robin  is  always  glad; 
Why  babies  though  different  look  the  same ; 
And  where  did  everything  get  its  name ; 
And  what  holds  up  the  big,  blue  sky ; 
And  where  do  butterflies  learn  to  fly; 
No  fairy  would  be  so  wise  as  I — 
If  the  trees  could  talk  to  me. 
[78] 


Prose  and  Verse 

But  this  I  know,  that  truth  is  true; 
That  I  am  I,  and  you  are  you; 
And  I  could  not  love  you  more  than  I  do 
If  the  trees  could  talk  to  me. 


[79] 


Prose  and  Verse 


MAMMY'S  LULLABY* 

H,  de  whip-poor-will  is  singin'  in  de  twilight's 

spreadin'  gloom, 
An'  de  fire-light  flickers  dimly  t'roo  de  shadders  in  de 

room, 
An'  my  little  dusky  lambkin  cuddles  close  to  mammy's 

breast, 
'Cause  it's  tired  now,  an'  sleepy,  an'  it's  foun'  a  place 

to  rest. 

Mammy's  arms'll  hoi'   it  closely,  mammy's  heart'll 

keep  it  warm, 
Mammy's  love'll  guide  it  safely  t'roo  de  sunshine  an' 

de  storm; 
Mammy's  lips'll  heal  its  bruises,  mammy's  breast'll 

soothe  its  cry, 
Mammy's  song'll  lead  it  gently  to  de  dream-Ian'  in 

de  sky. 

Like  a  little  downy  chicken  'neath  de  shelter  o'  de 

wing 
It'll  nes'le  down  a-chirpin'  when  it  hears  its  mammy 

sing; 

It's  my  cozy  little  cricket,  it's  my  maple-sugar  coon, 
It's  my  pretty  sweet-potato,  it's  my  yaller  rose  o'  June. 

*An  edition  of  this  poem  with  musical  accompaniment  by  the 
author  is  published  by  Clayton  F.  Summy  Co.,  Chicago,  through 
whose  kind  permission  the  lines  are  here  printed. 

[80] 


40956 


A     000  678  023     3 


